Take My Hand
by E J Mulford
Summary: "All these years later, John knows that taking Sherlock's hand that night didn't just mean escaping from the police. That 'take my hand' were not the only three words uttered in that moment. That the underlying, hidden requests would map out the rest of his life." What else went unsaid between them? Covers 18 years of Sherlock/John. Ship it how you like it. M for language.


_This was my attempt to defeat writer's block following my Stargate projects (if you're here from there I'm coming straight back and _Light _will be up before the end of the month). Just a few things: _

_a. This was inspired by 1:25 of the gorgeous 'Take My Hand (Take My Whole Life Too)' __video by Youtuber _Heathyr Shea, _check it out!_;

_b. I adore Amanda Abbington and can't wait to see her as Mary_;

_c. I ship Johnlock as both OTP and BROTP, so I deliberately tried to write this so that friendship shippers could see bromance and romance shippers could see something more. Hope I was successful._

_d. I know I may have taken a couple of little liberties with time, event sequence - so this is a bit AU, for the sake of the story._

_e. I always imagine John's dressing gown as being red._

_Reviews are love. Enjoy!_

**_3rd July 2013: _**_Wow, guys. Your feedback has been absolutely wonderful and so inspiring, I can't tell you what it means. Thank you so much!_

xxxx

**Take My Hand**

Sherlock x John

To be shipped any way you like it.

"_Take my hand, and take my whole life, too."_

xxxx

x

_**Take my hand.**_

_His breath comes in sharp gasps, the handcuff tugging painfully at his wrist as Sherlock sprints ahead, strides too long for John to match, and he struggles to keep up. He wants to call out, ask where they're going and why, to slow down for a moment so he can get an actual explanation of his partner's latest crazy plan. _Daring escape my arse. _But before he has the chance to get any words out the consulting detective curbs his pace by a fraction and, reaching blindly for John, calls out, "Take my hand!" The doctor wraps his callused palm around Sherlock's pale, slender fingers without hesitation. It takes maybe half a second for him to realise, being pulled along more comfortably now, that they're holding hands. And the only thing that slips from his lips into the night, barely distinguishable over the thunderous beating of his heart and the roar of his pulse, is,_

"_Now people will definitely talk!" It's a joke. A playful rib at the fact that even the smallest of Sherlock's actions – such as grabbing his hand to help him keep up – can be misconstrued into something more important. It's a joke. That's all it is._

Except it wasn't. Now, all these years later, John knows that taking Sherlock's hand that night didn't just mean escaping from the police. After everything they've been through together, John knows the detective didn't just offer him that one simple phrase. He couldn't have known it then, despite having already been solving crimes with his flatmate for over a year. He couldn't have possibly understood what he did in covering that hand with his own as they ran, breathless and handcuffed, through the darkened backstreets of London. That _take my hand_ were not the only three words uttered in that moment. That the underlying, hidden requests would map out the rest of his life.

x

xxxx

_**Believe in me.**_

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes..." He breathes the words one more time. Just one more. As if he hasn't been repeating them like a mantra, over and over and over, since the funeral. As if he doesn't cling to them like a lifeline, the one thing holding him together, the one thing keeping him sane. It's been nearly two weeks. Twelve days since he jumped, right there, right in front of him, right...right there. John has only left the flat once in those twelve days, to go and watch the body of his best friend be buried beneath the earth, hidden away as if he were never anything more than a mahogany box and a marble tombstone. "I believe in Sherlock Holmes." He's not unfamiliar with grief; he's a doctor, and ex-military at that. Dealing with grief – delivering it, watching it, easing it – is part of his job description. But _feeling_ it...he's never felt it before. Not like this. This ever-present, all-consuming emptiness gnawing away inside of him is hell. Every waking moment is agony, knowing that his best friend, his _partner_, is gone and never coming back. Some part of him is missing. Some part of his being, something _Sherlock_, is missing now and without it he feels incomplete. Broken. Like an antique clock that's suddenly stopped ticking. A complex puzzle with too many lost pieces. He stopped going outside because he can't face them. His..._their_...friends. Greg, Angelo, Mike. He's even been avoiding Mrs Hudson as much as possible, a feat much harder than first thought because she is, after all, the landlady. It's not their pity for his loss that bothers John in particular, not the sympathetic glances and '_I'm so sorry_'s. No, what bothers him is their pity for his faith. His loyalty.

He can't believe that Sherlock was a fraud. He can't and he won't believe it, will _not_ no matter how long the newspapers spread it and people whisper it behind his back: John Watson, the traumatized, wounded soldier sent home from Afghanistan only to be taken in by the twisted lies of a psychopath and a criminal. It's not true. _It's not true_. Sherlock isn't..._wasn't_...a psychopath. He was a high-functioning sociopath, as he'd proudly tell anyone who'd listen, and he was a _good_ man. _You were...the best man, and the most...human, human being I've ever known. _He was unique, and brilliant, and pure genius, and even though he could be cold as ice and cruel when he wanted to be John _knows_ that there was goodness underneath it all. _Sherlock would never have taken advantage. He would never have hurt me._ John is as sure of this as he is certain that the sky is blue and the Earth is round. Which is why he can't take it when Lestrade shakes his head at him as if to say, _I don't know, John_, like he never even knew the consulting detective at all. Why he misses Molly, who out of everyone is the only other person with no doubt whatsoever that Sherlock was genuine – except she doesn't drop in anymore. She'd made a habit of stopping by every day after _it_ happened, but since she burst into hysterical tears at the funeral and had to leave no one's seen or heard from her. John figures the pathologist's just trying to learn to live with her newly shattered heart. He should know, with his own so irreparably broken. But what he hates even more than all that, more than the doubt and disloyalty of Sherlock's...peers (_not friends, no, he only ever had one of those_) with the exception of poor old Molly and the faithful Mrs Hudson, is Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes, the older sibling, the British government. The one man who should believe more truly than anyone that his little brother was real and good, and the one man who does his best to enforce exactly the opposite. He's been over twice in the past two weeks: the day after The Fall and the day before the funeral. Both times he'd seated himself on the sofa – because the fierce looks John had thrown his way as he moved for Sherlock's armchair were enough to make even him think again – with that bloody stupid umbrella of his, and denounced his own flesh and blood. His own family.

"He always did like games, my brother," he said in his condescending _you-should-have-known-he-was-a-liar-all-along-you- should-have-known-he-was-a-fake_ tone. "And experiments. The feelings of other people were always his favourite playthings." John simply sat there in stony silence until Mycroft got the message and left. Hell will freeze over before he betrays his best friend, dead or alive, and he'll hold to that no matter what. John pulls his knees up to his chest, curled up in his armchair with the curtains drawn against the bright sunshine outside. The heavy dressing gown wrapped around his shoulders is blue instead of red, and much too big. Folding his arms around his legs, John turns his head and buries his nose into the soft fabric of the robe's collar, inhaling deeply to calm the frantic beating of his heart. Even though the doctor's been wearing it for days, the garment still smells faintly of a certain detective. It's a scent John swears he will never let himself forget.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

x

xxxx

_**Think of me.**_

The next three years are the loneliest of his life. Because he knows how it feels, now, to have someone. A best friend, a partner-in-crime (no pun intended). Someone to care about. Someone he hoped had cared about him. There are nights when he wishes Mike bloody Stamford had never introduced him to the world's only consulting detective, because life without Sherlock Holmes is just..._empty_. And it's terrifying. Mycroft arranges for him to start seeing his therapist again, twice a week, every Monday and Thursday afternoon at 3pm sharp. John doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to sit there and defend himself, defend his feelings, to a woman who has _no idea_ what this is like for him. But he goes. For the sake of his sanity. He's back to work at the clinic sooner than recommended but he doesn't care; he needs to keep busy, keep his mind preoccupied. Anything to stop his thoughts from wandering to the marble tombstone that haunts his dreams, and the cold, silent flat waiting for him at the end of each day. He stops blogging. There's nothing _to _blog about anymore, and it feels wrong to try. Wrong to just be _Doctor-Watson. _No _Sherlock-Holmes-and- _attached. Molly takes extended leave from St Bart's, or so he hears, and he doesn't see her again for a long time. When she returns she has a tan and a smile on her face. And an engagement ring on her finger. His name is Stuart and he's a car mechanic from South London, and after a whirlwind romance across several hot countries that John doesn't bother to remember they're getting married in the summer. John's happy for her, poor old Molly Hooper. She deserves that much. Greg and his wife divorce. It's amicable and not messy, but John still meets him in the pub every Friday night for a pint (or several) while the paperwork is being finalised, and every Friday night from then on. Anderson and Donovan break it off two years to the month of The Fall, when she uses the 'L' word and he can't say it back. His wife is none the wiser. It makes things a little awkward in the department but for the most part it's bearable. Life goes on. The days still tick by, the world still turns, the sun still sets and rises and John struggles along with it. But he is empty. And he is alone.

Until one morning there's a knock at his door, and ten minutes later he has bloody knuckles and tear-stained cheeks and a living breathing Sherlock Holmes holding onto him tightly.

x

xxxx

_**Stand by me.**_

John can't remember the last time he was this angry. His heart is pounding furiously and the blood is thrumming in his ears and he isn't even sure how loud he's shouting but he knows that he's _livid _and he's had fucking _enough_ of their cruelty and he can't even – "John."

"_Don't talk to him like that ever again do you fucking understand me _– "

"Sherlock, maybe you should get him outside..."

" – _He's not some freak and he's not a psychopath or a weirdo or any of those things you people make him out to be he's – _"

"John, mate, calm down, it's – "

" – _bloody brilliant he's a genius and he's alive do you even _understand _what that _means_ did you even _care_ that he was _gone _does it not mean _anything _to you – "_ A firm hand touches his good shoulder, holding him in place, grounding him, and a low, smooth voice murmurs in his ear,

"_John, it's alright_." The familiar rumble pierces straight to the very centre of his being. John blinks, slowly, looking round at the startled faces in front of him. Greg, Donovan, Anderson. His vision clears, and he realises with a dull stab of embarrassment that he's standing in the middle of Lestrade's office and he's been yelling at the top of his lungs; the blinds on the windows are raised, officers on the other side standing frozen in the middle of their work, watching him with varying degrees of shock and unease. Donovan and Anderson's mouths hang ajar, as if the usual insults they'd been hurling at Sherlock just moments ago could still be reverberating in the air.

Already flustered, John flushes an even deeper shade of pink and looks down at his shoes, shame starting to bubble in the pit of his stomach. He lost it. The two coppers had sneered and spoken to Sherlock exactly the way they used to, as if he were just dirt, as if he were nothing, as if he hasn't been back for less than a month after _pretending to be dead for three whole years and he just lost _– the hand squeezes his shoulder, and John's ears begin to burn as he notices the fists he's unconsciously clenched at his hips. "I think I have all I need, Lestrade." The hand moves, sliding quickly and securely around his shoulders. "John and I will be leaving now." A surprisingly gentle tug uproots him from the office floor. John allows himself to be steered out of the department without so much as a backward glance at his friend and...well, Donovan and Anderson. He's ushered into an elevator and released once the doors slide shut, but no one speaks. They're silent the whole way home: in the street, in the cab, on the doorstep while Sherlock unlocks their front door. They're silent on the stairs and on the landing and in the flat as Sherlock directs John to the sofa and puts the kettle on, pressing a hot cup of tea into the blogger's numb hands. Neither of them minds the silence. They've never really been good with words.

x

xxxx

_**Pretend with me.**_

Denial is a powerful thing. And pain is a great motivator. So for months after Sherlock's return from the dead they go on as if nothing has changed, as if he never left. Pretending that the three years of his absence don't count. They start taking cases again. John does the shopping, like always, and fetches the detective's phone from his pocket on a regular basis. Sherlock resumes his experiments and completely takes over the fridge with a stomach-turning assortment of pickled..._things_. John regains the eight pounds he lost, filling out his old cable-knit jumpers more comfortably much to Mrs Hudson's delight. Sherlock plays his violin when he can't think and both compliments and insults John in equal measure. John still joins Greg in the pub every now and again, and after Lestrade has worked his way through a string of unsuccessful girlfriends he finds himself provided with the number of a pretty nurse named Sarah. The doctor's blog is soon back up and running with twice as many readers as before. He's ashamed to say he's surprised when Molly marries Stuart in early June with Sherlock walking her down the aisle, even knowing that she knew the detective was alive all along. John forgives her for that. And, albeit a little more reluctantly, he forgives Mycroft. Anderson and Donovan are the only exception to the pretence: they stop insulting Sherlock and start fighting with each other instead, and before long Anderson transfers out. Not just out of the department, but out of the city. Bolton Homicide, apparently. Sherlock catches Sally crying in her cubicle one morning and after that it's back to _Freak_ and _Weirdo_. Making up for her moment of weakness, John guesses._ But nothing has changed_, he tells himself. _Nothing has changed_. And eventually he begins to believe it.

x

xxxx

_**Come with me.**_

They are one entity. Sherlock-Holmes-and-Doctor-Watson. Never one without the other, never individual. Even when they're apart they're always together, because no one can talk to Sherlock and not think of his blogger, and no one can see John without looking for the consulting detective. One entity. They don't fully realise this until one rainy, miserable morning in early November, four years since The Fall.

"John."

"No."

"_John_."

"_No_."

It's his first day off from the clinic in three weeks, and John's firmly made up his mind to spend it in his armchair with his favourite book and, God help him, some much deserved peace and quiet with Sherlock out of the flat for the day. He doesn't care how many times Lestrade calls asking them to hurry up and get to the crime scene, or how 'interesting' the case may be, or how long Sherlock stands there trying to make him go. It's his day off. He's taking a break. Focusing his attention on the well-loved copy of _Gulliver's Travels_ in his hands, John refuses to look up at his flatmate. The consulting detective can tune _him_ out whenever he pleases – it's about time John gets to do the same. _It won't hurt him to go on his own for once. He managed just fine for years before he met me._ "Just go, Sherlock," he mutters under his breath. "One day doesn't matter." The words hover in the air for a moment before falling into the void of silence between them, and John continues to read. A full minute passes, during which he turns a page and shifts a little in his seat to ease the dull ache in his shoulder. But Sherlock doesn't move.

"I...I can't." The deep baritone voice, usually so sharp and self-assured like its owner, is quiet and soft. It wobbles around the edges, a tremble of uncertainty that wouldn't be obvious to someone who didn't know it well. John's forehead creases. Lifting his head, he looks to the doorway and the consulting detective who stands there with his eyebrows drawn low and an unnameable expression on his face. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides and he seems to be struggling with something, as if faced with one of the rare puzzles he doesn't understand, an incomprehensible thought. His gaze is flickering almost anxiously around the room. "I can't...go without you," Sherlock says, tones reduced to a mere murmur. John continues to stare at him, wondering what could possibly have come over his flatmate – and then Sherlock's steely grey eyes lock with his, and he understands. "Please, John." His face softens, the frown fading from his brow. John stands, closing his book without bothering to mark the page, moving to grab his jacket from the arm of the sofa. They are two halves of one entity that spent too long apart.

x

xxxx

_**Trust in me.**_

"Do you trust me, John?!"

_Yes!_ the doctor wants to yell. _Of course I bloody trust you, now get me the hell out of here! _But all he can do is nod furiously, struggle against the ropes tying him to the chair and try not to choke on the grimy rag gagging his mouth.

"Good," Sherlock whispers, and pulls the bag back down over John's head. "_I'll come back for you_." And then he disappears silently into the darkness.

When the consulting detective proposed that he infiltrate a drugs ring Lestrade had spent several weeks chasing, his blogger had desperately tried to discourage him. "Do you really want to get shot?" he'd demanded to know. "What if you get back on the junk? What if they _kill you?!_" In all honesty he was more afraid – frightened, terrified – of losing his best friend all over again than he was about him having a relapse. It's a fear he knows he'll always live with, made all the more real by the fact that he's already had to live through it once. But the man is Sherlock Holmes, and when he sets his will to achieving something there's no stopping him. He'd dyed his hair a coppery-blonde and cultivated some stubble and vanished into the air for six days, ten hours and thirty-four minutes exactly. John had been counting. And worrying himself sick, cursing the detective for putting him through all this anxiety and stress. In the end, though, it was his own safety John should have been concerned for. They grabbed him on the way home from work on the seventh night, his military training easily overpowered by three much bigger men and a rather hard blow to the back of his skull. When he woke up he was here, some kind of abandoned construction site by the look of it, bruised and bound and gagged with a headache that could split the Earth. That was, as far as he's been able to estimate, about five hours ago. Four hours since they put the bag over his head, and three since he was told by two unknown voices that he was their bait.

Bait to lure the great Sherlock Holmes – even crude, amateur drug gangs have heard of him, apparently – right into a trap, and once the detective was dead they assured the doctor that he would be next. Can't let their clients' names reach the ears of the Fuzz. Or their superiors, for that matter. This should've all meant just one thing to John: _oh, fuck, I'm going to die_. But in reality it means many more. Firstly, that Sherlock's cover was somehow blown. Secondly, but most importantly, the man had escaped and was still out there somewhere, alive. And thirdly, that Sherlock would come. He'd come and save him. John, of course, was right. The detective is here, having avoided the planned ambush by the sound of things, and he's going to come back for him once he removes the nearby threats. It's this knowledge that keeps John from hyperventilating. _Sherlock will save me. He'll always save me_. A gunshot sounds in the distance and he starts, the rope starting to leave nice burns around his wrists and ankles. Then the soldier in him murmurs to be still, to be calm, to focus. He closes his eyes under the bag, breathing deeply through his nose until his racing heart slows down. He can't see and he can't move, but he has other senses. Straining his ears, he listens carefully. Silence. No traffic...not a busy part of the city. No low rush of water, so nowhere very close to the Thames...

There are more gunshots, and shouting, and heavy footfalls. But John concentrates on the deductions, reminding himself that he's survived thieves, killers, fires, bombs, car chases, spears, swords and Moriarty with his consulting detective. _Sherlock will save me_. And when a sweating, smiling Sherlock finally pulls the bag from his head for the second time and starts to untie him, all he asks is, "What took you so long?"

x

xxxx

_**Fall with me.**_

It's been five years since The Fall, but John still has nightmares. Sherlock's alive and they're working more than ever but the dreams haven't gone away. It's the same every time: watching him step up to the wall, watching him stretch his arms out, running to stop him but just a second too late, an inch too short, fingertips scratching against navy blue material and his best friend disappears over the edge. Some nights he manages to rouse himself and pad downstairs; nine times out of ten Sherlock will still be sitting at his desk going over case files or conducting some new harebrained experiment on the kitchen table. They share a look, and John makes tea and sits and reads whilst his partner carries on with microwaving ears or studying the consistency of pigeon droppings. More common, though, are the nights where John wakes up to a cold sweat and hot tears and Sherlock shaking his arm and a throat turned raw from screaming. The detective says nothing as his blogger gets a glass of water from the bathroom; he never apologises. He wore all his '_sorry_'s and '_I did it to protect you_'s out the day he reappeared like a ghost on the doorstep of 221B. It's okay. John has long since forgiven him out of sheer desperation to have him back, and more apologies, however sincere or elaborate, won't fix anything. And for a long time John isn't sure what will.

There's a whole month where he goes through a rather long string of women in the hope that not sleeping alone will help. He has a mutual agreement with all of them that it's nothing serious, and they come and go one after the other until he has to admit that all he's achieving is making himself feel guilty and cheap. He stops spending his nights out of the flat and Sherlock doesn't comment. It's not until a few months later that they make a minor breakthrough: the violin. John finally begins to notice that, if he drifts off to Sherlock playing, the dreams tend to be less intense. Still agony, still gut-wrenching, but the kind of nightmare he can wake himself up from without Mrs Hudson thinking he's being brutally murdered. After that discovery he becomes a little less apprehensive of going to sleep – because every night, once he announces that he's turning in and changes clothes and crawls wearily into bed, Sherlock always just _happens _to pick up his instrument and start to play. Soft notes and long notes, Vivaldi, Bach and Leclair. His own compositions, new and old, ones he's played for others before and ones he reserves only for his blogger, private and personal. They never talk about this arrangement, and John finds his nights are no longer quite as terrifying. But the dreams still don't go away. They may be less _noisy_ but they are no less real, no less horrifying, and he wishes he could believe that time will one day completely heal this particular soul-deep wound. He knows that it won't.

He never says it out loud, but John knows he'll keep falling with Sherlock until the end of his days.

x

xxxx

_**Love with me.**_

"Do you love her?" John looks up from his morning paper, teacup raised halfway to his lips. Sherlock stands with his back to the counter on the other side of the table, peering down at the doctor over his drink with an unreadable expression.

"Excuse me?"

"Do you love her?" Sherlock repeats. "Mary? I understand love is an emotion deemed desirable when one is getting married." John quirks a confused eyebrow at him, sipping his tea.

"Of course I love her," he answers honestly. It seems to him that three weeks before the wedding is a little bit late to be asking questions like that, but then Sherlock doesn't think the way ordinary people do. He returns his attention to the football article in front of him and smiles; Greg and Stu owe him twenty quid from the bet on yesterday's game.

"So you're going to marry her." The low voice of the detective rolls out again, more quietly this time, more subdued.

"Those two things usually go together, Sherlock," John replies without taking his eyes off the paper.

"Marriage is hard work." There's a bluntness to the words this time. But the blogger is unmoved.

"I know. But I hear it's worth it when you find the right person."

He knows what Sherlock is doing, what he's trying to say – he's spent the past few days not-so-subtly pointing out the various different 'cons' of marriage, reasons why it's better to remain unwed if not completely unattached. John suspects a last-ditch attempt to avoid paying the full rent for 221B. He'll let the detective play it out for a little while longer. It can't be easy for him to know he'll have to start buying his own food and making his own tea. "The 'right person'?" Sherlock mutters into his cup.

"Yes," John replies, because he hopes Mary might be.

"'The woman for you'?"

"If you want to call it that." He turns a page.

"Your 'soulmate'?" The smile slides from the doctor's face, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock repressing a smirk, knowing he's hit a nerve. John hates him for it, in that instant. He can hope all he wants that Mary is the right woman for him – he adores her, he really does – but all his feelings can't change the fact that in some things where he should be certain, he is unsure. Is she right for him? Yes, he likes to think so. She makes him happy, and he's not getting any younger. But is she his soulmate?

He closes the paper, reaching for his tea. "I do love her, Sherlock," he insists.

"There's a difference between loving someone and belonging with them," the detective shoots back, and now John does look up, eyes narrowing in irritation.

"Says the high-functioning sociopath."

"Says the genius who, might I remind you, has been your friend for seven years."

"That's funny, I thought friends were supposed to be happy for each other."

"Only when there is good reason." Shaking his head, John stands and moves to the sink, setting his empty cup down on the draining board.

"What, are you jealous or something?" he snipes. Silence. He glances over his shoulder as he finds the sink plug to wash up. Sherlock is glowering at him, lips pursed and eyebrows knitted, and the blogger's expression clears when realisation finally dawns. "You _are_, aren't you?" he murmurs incredulously, turning around to face his partner. "You're _jealous_."

"Certainly not," Sherlock snaps just a little too defensively. "Such emotions are mundane and a waste of energy." The detective abandons his still half-full teacup on the counter with a clink and retrieves his scarf from the table, securing it quickly around his neck, striding back into the living room.

"Wait, where are you going?" John calls, following after him.

"St Bart's. The morgue. Molly has a body for me."

"I thought you had an experiment to do?"

"I'll do it later." Sherlock snatches his coat from the peg on the wall, roughly pulling it on over his suit, and before John can stop himself he blurts out,

"Look, Sherlock, no matter what happens _you'll _always be my – " He doesn't know what word he intends to say until it's there, right on the tip of his tongue, and it surprises him so badly that his voice dies in his throat. The detective has frozen, sharp eyes capturing him in a piercing gaze, chest heaving under his coat.

"Your what?" he prompts, tones vibrating across the space between them and straight through the doctor standing, speechless, in the middle of the room. John swallows, his breath uneven. He tears his eyes away to look down at the floor as he chews at his bottom lip. Sherlock's voice rumbles out once more, "_Exactly_." And then he's gone, out of the flat and disappearing down the stairs with the door slamming shut behind him. John doesn't move, hurt and confusion drawing his features into a frown, the faint taste of blood tangy under his tongue. The word he'd almost said...he couldn't have possibly meant that word.

x

xxxx

_**Be with me**_**.**

Everyone is sorry and sympathetic when John's marriage ends. They send their apologies, as if it's somehow their fault, and their love as if that will make everything better. Mrs Hudson cooks and bakes. Greg takes up the blogger's old role of willing ear and drinking buddy as the divorce proceedings are going on, making sure he's out of the house and distracted every Friday night for several months. Molly and Stu invite him for dinner now and then for a change of company, but they have a happy marriage and two young boys to look after so they can't exactly do much else. Harry sends a very long email detailing every flaw of Mary's and why John is far better off without her, and even Mycroft shows his support by pushing the paperwork through the system as quickly as can be arranged. Sarah knows that all the drink and food and bitching in the world won't help – he rarely drinks to excess, there's only so much pie one person can eat and he respects Mary too much to ever say a bad word about her. So she does her best with the little things: humorous post-it notes left on his work desk, giving him the nicest mug for tea at lunch, reminding him once that she's here if he needs a shoulder. She goes home and asks her fiancée how the man seemed last night, and Greg replies that John seemed better. And she doesn't speak of it again. Everyone is sorry and sympathetic when John's marriage ends. Everyone except Sherlock. Everyone except John.

He turns up on the doorstep of 221B at one in the morning with nothing but the clothes on his back and a light tan line on his left ring-finger and Sherlock lets him in without comment. Within the week he has moved his things back into the flat and is making tea and acting as a sounding board for the detective's ideas regarding a jewellery-store theft in Brixton. Sherlock never offers his sympathies or pretends to be sorry to hear about the separation; it's been eight years since The Fall. They have no need for pretending anymore. Sherlock never _disliked _Mary, but it's obvious he isn't all that sad that she's divorcing his blogger after just eleven months. And John blames himself, for marrying her when he knew that his consulting detective would always come first, always be his priority. She deserves better, but for all his faithfulness and love he can't give her the total and utter devotion that some other man out there can. John blames himself. He should've known it was doomed from the start, because he'll never be with someone so completely as with Sherlock Holmes.

x

xxxx

_**Die with me**_**.**

He hadn't realised how much he missed the rush and roar of adrenaline in his veins, bursting through his bloodstream like an explosion. He struggles to hear over the deafening thumps of his own heart, but with his back pressed up against the wall of 221B and his breath coming in deep, desperate wheezes, John suddenly finds himself starting to giggle. The sound greatly alarms Sherlock who is busy dry-heaving into the umbrella stand: he's never had to run so fast in his life and they came _so close_ to dying tonight, closer than they had in a long while. There are bloodstains on both of them and cuts and bruises – courtesy of the highly-trained hitman they'd been caught tracking – and there's a graze across the doctor's cheek where a bullet skimmed the skin, and he's standing here _laughing_? John still clutches his service pistol in his hand, head tilted back, eyes screwed shut tight as he laughs. "You'll be the death of me, Sherlock Holmes," he gasps out. All he receives in reply is the sound of retching, and he knows he wouldn't have it any other way.

x

xxxx

_**Help me understand.**_

It never used to be a huge problem before, but now Sherlock is starting to find he literally can't work without John there to help him. Habit, he supposes. He's gotten used to bouncing ideas off his blogger at the most perplexing of crime scenes; it seems only logical that his mind would grow unaccustomed to working alone. This is one of the days when he needs John there, without a doubt. "So, what do you make of it?" the man in question asks, standing beside Sherlock as he scrutinises the young woman's corpse in detail. After a few more moments of peering through his pocket microscope, he is forced to admit uncertainty.

"I don't know," he mutters as he straightens up to his full height, under his breath so that the officers milling around nearby won't hear. He doesn't like anyone but his blogger to know when he's hit a brick wall. John looks down at the body sprawled face-up in the middle of the field – none of her clothes match, a neon orange print jacket over reds and yellows and greens, far too many layers for this time of year, a sneaker on one foot and stiletto on the other. Her makeup has run badly and given her panda eyes, a stark contrast against her colourless lips and chalky pallor. He sighs heavily, medical scrubs rustling as he folds his arms across his chest.

"Poor girl looks as though she had a run-in with the circus." Sherlock hums. He gives the body another quick once-over with his eyes, a tangle of half-thoughts all fighting for attention at the forefront of his mind.

"You've stopped dating."

"I – " John's head snaps up to look at the consulting detective, eyebrows drawing together. "What?" Sherlock doesn't even glance his way.

"You've stopped dating," he repeats, pushing his hands into his pockets. "You rarely have nights out of the flat anymore unless we're working, and when you do it's to meet Lestrade for drinks at that god-awful pub two streets away from us. It's been months since you last brought anyone new back to the flat, made me suffer through an unbearable introduction, or asked me to leave for the evening so you and your latest girlfriend could engage in intercourse. You've replaced all of the hideous jumpers Mary made you throw away and you've gained exactly two and a quarter pounds since the divorce came through. Not to mention the considerable increase in porn on your hard-drive, no pun intended – "

"You were on my laptop _again_ – ?!"

" – all of which points to one logical conclusion, that you've decided to give up dating." John's mouth opens and closes, a pink hue creeping onto his cheeks.

"I...my jumpers are _not _hideous!"

"I rest my case," Sherlock says in tones ringing with self-satisfaction. Blushing furiously to the tips of his ears, John looks quietly around, hoping no one else heard the detective's little deduction.

"Since when have you ever been concerned about my love life?" he whispers grumpily. "Dating bores you." Sherlock's eyes zero in on the victim's mismatching shoes, cataloguing size, brand, quality, age and material for the third time.

"Indeed," he agrees. "My interests are otherwise spoken for." On the other side of the field Lestrade raises a questioning hand at the duo, shielding his eyes from the bright midday sun. John subtly shakes his head, _we have absolutely no idea, sorry Greg_, and grumbles,

"Of course. You're married to your work."

"Among other things."

It takes the doctor a minute or so to notice the inflection in the words. When he does the frown disappears from his face, lips parting, and he looks slowly back to Sherlock. The man's features give away nothing of his meaning, eyes still fixed on the corpse's feet, but John is an open book: surprise. Confusion. _Hope? _For a moment there, from the tone of Sherlock's voice, it sounded like...or did he imagine it? "What other things?" he asks, and he'd be embarrassed by how breathless he sounds if he wasn't so focussed on the answer. What else does Sherlock Holmes consider himself married to? Where else do his interests lie? It's several moments before the detective turns his attention to his partner, and when he does it's immediately clear that his thoughts are on a different topic entirely. His eyes are wide, a triumphant grin lighting up his face.

"The circus!" he cries excitedly, and grabs John by the upper arms. "John, you're brilliant!"

"I am?" the doctor squeaks, but Sherlock has already released him and is striding away, calling,

"Lestrade! It was the jealous ex-boyfriend!"

John is left standing alone by the corpse, arms hanging uselessly at his sides and three unexplained words still echoing in his ears. _Among other things_.

x

xxxx

_**Fight with me.**_

"You have _got _to be _fucking kidding me?_" He doesn't often lose his temper. In fact it's one of the things he prides himself on, his ability to live with Sherlock Holmes and not bat an eyelid at 90% of the things he does after all these years. But tonight seems to be an exception. Sherlock has been pretty difficult these past few days with his latest round of tests, and after a horrible day at the clinic where he'd had to deliver very bad news to two people, running on just a couple hours' sleep and a migraine, John was looking forward to some tea, food and sleep as soon as possible. But instead he's standing here in the middle of the living room, all clenched fists and thunderous expression, trying desperately not to yell at his flatmate. Sherlock is carrying out some kind of experiment involving test tubes and Petri dishes on the kitchen table, and doesn't even so much as glance up at the fury in the doctor's voice.

"It was only a little acid, John – " he starts to say, referring to the gaping hole in the centre of the man's mattress, but is angrily cut off.

"I can see all the way to _the floor!_" John shouts, his patience wearing thin in the face of Sherlock's indifference. Thrusting his hand forward, he shows the detective the singed and largely holey material in his fingers. "And what do you call _this?!_" Sherlock's eyes momentarily lift from the eyedropper he holds to study the fabric, once a terrible mustard yellow patterned with multicoloured ducks, before looking back down again.

"That appears to be a pile of burnt wool," he states calmly.

"It used to be _my favourite jumper!_" John can feel his blood pressure shooting through the roof, unable to believe how Sherlock could be so _careless_. In the early days he'd gotten used to coming home and finding that some of his belongings had been used in various experiments, and usually that meant they were damaged in some way – like the time Sherlock decided to conduct an examination of scorch marks on one of John's shirts, his pants and the paperback he was currently reading. But the damage wasn't visible once he tucked the shirt in, the pants were old and he didn't think much of the book anyway. No real harm was done. Until now the detective had never destroyed anything of his that was irreplaceable, because really, it's the jumper that's worked him up the most – he'd thought it was because the man had some idea of where to draw the line, but clearly it was just sheer dumb luck.

"I don't see why you're so upset," Sherlock says, still pissing about with his sodding dishes and tubes as John seethes a few feet away. "You never wore it anyway. It didn't suit you, the cut was all wrong and the colour was awful. Really, John, it's just a jumper."

"Just a..." The doctor is rendered speechless for several long seconds, distantly aware that he is beginning to shake. He takes a step forward, and thinks that if Sherlock mentions anything about 'it was only a little acid' again he'll punch him. "My mum bought me this..._that_ jumper before I was first shipped out to Afghanistan! I wore it the day she...passed away." John's throat tightens involuntarily, the way it always does when he thinks of or speaks about his parents. His eyes narrow in hurt and anger and he snipes, "Or did you _delete_ that?" Finally Sherlock raises his head, meeting John's eyes for the first time since he came through the door and lowering the test tube in his hand. The blogger can see the cogs turning in Sherlock's brain as he tries to recall the relevant information, something, anything. Mrs Watson died three years ago after a long illness; nothing as horrendous as a tumour or cancer, thank God, but she was nearing eighty and her health had been steadily declining ever since Mr Watson passed just a few years previously. Her children were there with her in the hospital when it happened, Harry 'freshly' sober (again) and John with a shiny new wedding ring on his finger. He'd been despondent for weeks afterwards, months even. In retrospect he's at least relieved that his mum didn't have to see his marriage fail: she and his dad only ever met Sherlock once and seemed convinced that their son was bisexual, but they'd have been happy as long as he was happy, whether he married a man or a woman. The divorce would have made her worry for him, something she couldn't afford to do in her state of health.

Sherlock remembers none of this. He sniffs, shrugs and goes back to his work when his mental efforts come up blank. "Deleted it," is all he says, in an unashamed, annoyed mutter. Can't John see that he's busy? John feels suddenly winded, the breath forced from his lungs as he realises that Sherlock didn't think it _important_, muscles tensed from the effort it's taking him not to punch the detective in the face. In the same moment he registers that the test tubes are full of burnt wool.

_He doesn't care. He doesn't give a flying fuck. _"Unbelievable," he whispers. "Un-_fucking_-believable." John snatches his hand in as if scalded, turning on his heel to walk away and just as quickly wheeling back. "_You_ – _!_"So many heated words are fighting to be hurled at once that he struggles to remain coherent. "You _heartless_ – _selfish_ – don't you even realise – don't you know _how bloody inconsiderate_ you are?!" he explodes, and the sheer volume of his outburst is enough to make Sherlock's head fly up, wide-eyed. His cheeks are flushed and he's trembling uncontrollably, unable to tell whether he's more hurt or livid. "You just don't care, do you?! If it has nothing to do with you or your bloody_ work_ then it just doesn't matter to the great _Sherlock Holmes!_ You don't care about other people, you don't care about their _feelings!_" He shakes the remnants of his jumper to emphasize his point as the detective stares at him in silent shock. "You swan about hurting the people around you like it's no big deal and then_ I _have to do damage control, well what about when it's _me_ you hurt, who's around to make _me _feel better when you do bloody _stupid _and _cruel_ things like _burn my fucking_ – " John runs out of breath and gasps in a sharp, unsteady lungful of air, and something inside him snaps. "You know what?" he breathes out, running a shaking hand over his forehead, "I can't do this. It's too much." Throwing up a hand to signal the end of the 'conversation', that he's had enough, he turns and storms out of the room. His heart is hammering and he needs to get away, to escape, because he seriously honest to God _cannot deal with this can't handle Sherlock fucking Holmes_ any longer. John blanks out the hole in his mattress as he grabs an old duffel bag from under his bed and starts to pull open drawers, tossing in some clean clothes, pyjamas and other items. _A bloody decade since The Fall why the hell have I stuck around this long_ – He retrieves his toothbrush and a blur of toiletries from the bathroom and they go in the bag too, and then he's thumping down the stairs and back into the living room to pick up his keys from the coffee table.

Sherlock is still sitting in the kitchen, eyedropper in hand, wearing an expression of such utter surprise and confusion that in any other circumstances John would have laughed. But as it is he remains silent, shoving the keys into his jeans pocket. Only at the sight of the bag at John's feet does the detective seem to snap out of his daze, chair scraping against the floor as he stands quickly, equipment forgotten on the table. "John? Where are you going?" he asks, with a hesitance at odds with the speed at which he moves into the room. "What's the bag for?"

_Deduce it, you dick._ John snags his jacket from its peg on the wall, then realises that the man probably _has _deduced the situation already and is just trying to elicit a verbal response from him. Determined not to give Sherlock the satisfaction, the blogger ignores him completely, pulling on his jacket and avoiding all eye contact. His heart jumps in his chest and his stomach twists and his pulse roars so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear the more urgent calls of,

"John?! John!" as he shoulders the bag, wrenches open the door, and then slams it shut in Sherlock's face.

x

xxxx

_**Stay with me.**_

The flat door creaks as it slowly eases inwards. John curses under his breath, edging into 221B and closing the door gently behind him, but too late: there's a rush of footsteps and the quiet is shattered by a loud, "Where have you _been_?!" Holding in a sigh, John pockets the keys and reluctantly turns to face what he knows is waiting for him – an immaculate and angry Sherlock, all pristine suit and cutting temper, ready to chew him out. But that's not what he finds at all. A man _is_ standing there but, if it weren't for the unmistakeable paper-thin stature and razor-sharp cheekbones, John wouldn't recognise him as the consulting detective: mismatched pyjamas, a day's worth of stubble covering his chin and his distinctive curls are gone, chopped away with his hair now styled into a shorter, more casually ruffled arrangement. His usually pale skin is colourless, as if he's had some huge shock, and dark circles ring his eyes. For once he actually looks exhausted. John registers all of this in a matter of seconds, but refuses to let it make a dent in his armour. He briefly meets Sherlock's gaze as he moves past him into the kitchen, depositing his bag on the surprisingly clean table.

"Deduce it," he says calmly, an echo of his last thought before he stormed out of the flat yesterday evening. It still makes him angry now, to think of Sherlock's icy and inconsiderate behaviour, but he's determined to keep his temper this time. This flat is half his and he's bloody well going to live in it, even if it means giving Sherlock the cold shoulder until he realises what he's done wrong. John shrugs off his jacket and deliberately hangs it on the back of a chair at the table just to see if his flatmate will comment; not a word. He lifts his head and catches the detective's eyes running over him, cataloguing, analysing, trying to figure out where the doctor spent the night. But when his focus shifts to look John in the eye his own steely grey orbs are wide, and his head moves an infinitesimal amount to either side in a wordless shake of,

_No, I can't deduce you_. John doesn't let his surprise show in his features, and won't allow curiosity to distract him from being mad. He straightens up, not in the mood for tea, and starts to open cupboards in search of food.

"I was at Greg's," he lies, back to his flatmate and face hidden.

"Not true," Sherlock rumbles. "You were not with Lestrade and Sarah, nor were you with Molly and Stuart, Donovan, Mrs Hudson, Mike, Angelo, Mycroft or Harry." John freezes in the middle of examining a can of soup. He turns around still clutching the can, and fixes the detective with a wary look.

"I thought you weren't going to deduce me?" he asks.

"I didn't," Sherlock replies. "When you weren't back by midnight I called everyone in your address book to see if you were staying with any of our friends, and none of them had seen you. I woke up Mrs Hudson but you weren't there either." John stares at him. "Harry was most vocal, she seemed to be rather angry about the jumper and threatened to personally dismember me if anything bad happened to you. Lestrade told me I was a 'bloody idiot' and Mycroft said he'd have his people look for you." For a moment or so the doctor simply blinks, then he forces out,

"_You _called _all _of our friends, in the middle of the night, just to find out where I was?" Sherlock nods, Adam's apple bobbing his throat.

"Yes," he answers. "And then you were still gone all day and I – "

"I checked into a hotel for the night," John interrupts quietly. "I was at work today." The frown fades from the detective's face, the..._concern?_...in his eyes draining away, and he mutters,

"Oh. Of course." A pause. Confusion replaces the worry. "So why didn't Sarah – ?"

"She's on maternity leave. Has been for a month. Remember?" Sherlock takes a minute to think that over, but his companion gets there first. "You don't," John states. "You deleted it." He sets the can down on the counter, closing the cupboard. Stooping down and opening more doors he starts to pull out utensils and crockery. Keeping his back turned to the younger man he throws out over his shoulder, "What's with the hair?"

He can picture Sherlock reaching up now, touching the neatly cut ends of his curl-less hair as if only just recalling what has been done to it. "Disguise," he replies. "I thought you might have been taken, again, so I decided to go search for you myself. I was about to dye it blonde." John nods like this makes complete sense, but in truth the fact that his flatmate panicked _that_ badly over his absence is...surprising. He can feel the anger burning inside him dampen, present but not so raw. Although he knows he _may_ have overreacted slightly, Sherlock's words and actions had cut deep and he'd needed to get out. John can't claim to have always been the best friend – he's messed up a few times, gotten angry, said things he didn't mean – but the idea that after all this time his feelings could be so inconsequential to the detective hurts him more than he likes to admit. What if one day he ceases to be of importance entirely? "Are you going to leave?" The question is so hushed, so soft and cautious, that at first John thinks he imagined it. It's not until several long seconds have passed and Sherlock hasn't moved that he realises the words must have been real, and the vulnerability there strikes a chord somewhere inside him.

"No," he answers without turning around. "I just had to clear my head. I'm not leaving." John opens the can and tips the contents into the saucepan on the stove. "But I'm still pissed off with you." He can hear the smile in Sherlock's voice as the man replies,

"You're always pissed off with me," and doesn't fight the way the corner of his mouth tugs up. A few minutes later he turns off the stove, pouring the soup into a bowl and dumping the used utensils in the sink. He collects a spoon and a placemat and the loaf of bread from the cupboard and sets it all out on the table, ready to eat. The detective watches his movements, dressing gown swishing around his knees as he steps closer. But instead of sitting down John looks to his flatmate, gesturing to the food.

"Eat that, and don't argue, I know you've skipped every meal since I walked out. I'm going to bed." He picks up his bag and walks out of the kitchen, and Sherlock blinks.

"But, the acid – "

"Your bed. You can bloody well sleep on the sofa until you replace my mattress. People can talk all they like, I don't care. Goodnight."

And with that he disappears upstairs, feeling a little lighter and hiding a satisfied smile. He doesn't comment that the dressing gown Sherlock wears is ill-fitting and red.

x

xxxx

_**Change with me.**_

"It was the step-brother's nanny. The victim had been secretly seeing her for some time but recently began cheating on her with his sister-in-law: lingering cologne, far too expensive for him to have purchased it himself but the kind of gift that can be passed off as such, also too expensive for a nanny's salary and sensual undertones suggest lover not relative. How do I know there were two women? Simple, two different shades of lipstick, one faint red smudge on his shirt collar of a dark tone and high quality, and pink residue in the corner of his mouth, poor quality suggesting lower price therefore lower budget, i.e. someone trying to look attractive without spending a lot of cash – deep red suggests maturity, class, someone his own age or perhaps older, whereas the pink is more likely a younger woman's choice. How do I know it was the nanny? His front pocket, folded piece of paper with her name and number on it – he clearly didn't care about her enough to memorise either and it's obviously the handwriting of a young female judging from the excessive curls and 'I's dotted with hearts – torn from the corner of a long to-do list the contents of which I need not explain all point to the daily activities of a nanny. How do I know the sister-in-law was the other woman? His watch, also expensive, looks self-purchased but is in fact a second gift from a woman named 'Juliet'. The deliberately mysterious engraving on the back strongly alludes to an illicit affair and since there is no ring on his finger we can safely assume that she was the one who was married. The joking and cruel nature of the words suggests she was married to someone close to him, a brother, but not someone he cares much for and so playing on the stereotypical dysfunctional step-sibling relationship we can say it was his step-brother. Our John Doe was with both women the night he – " Sherlock stops abruptly in the middle of repeating his deductions to the team as his phone beeps loudly in his pocket. He fishes it out from the depths of his coat, and as he types a fast reply Greg and Sally both look to John, raising their eyebrows in surprise. The doctor shrugs helplessly. Seconds later the phone is put away and Sherlock launches seamlessly back into his explanation, describing how the nanny discovered the red lipstick on her lover's shirt and, in a fit of passion, seized the lamp from her bedside table and struck him twice, once across the face and then the back of the head for good measure, before dumping the body out here in the park. She took his ID, wallet and phone to make it look like a mugging gone wrong but made a fatal error in leaving the watch, probably unwilling to have any reminder of her lover's escapades with another woman. The watch's engraving can be traced to a nearby shop, from there to a client and then on to the identities of the victim, sister-in-law and nanny. Case closed.

With that the detective turns on his heel and marches away, long coat swishing behind him, taking out his phone again and pushing buttons like a madman. The three of them stare after him for a few moments, agape. Then Sally nods once and steps aside to place the necessary calls. "What was _that_ all about?" Greg asks quietly, edging closer to stand beside John as they watch Sherlock draw to a halt, hunched over the gadget forty feet away. "He never interrupts his deductions, not once he gets on a roll like that." With a confused shake of his head, John sighs,

"I really don't know." He means it. For the past few days Sherlock's been tapping away at his phone 24/7, clearly texting someone but determined not to reveal who. "Irene?" John had guessed, knowing now that The Woman wasn't actually beheaded. In fact, according to Sherlock, she's very much alive and doing well with her 'business' in the States, so it seemed reasonable that she might have resumed her efforts to get the detective to go for dinner. But apparently it's not her. Nor Mycroft, or Molly, or even Sarah or Stu or any of his various old enemies or contacts. Each of John's guesses was shot down with an amused smirk and an insistent denial. Unless the man is lying to him – and with their very recent blow-up he seriously had better not be – John is as stumped as everyone else. And it's starting to become extremely irritating.

"John, mate?" The doctor tears his gaze away from Sherlock, eyes flitting to Greg who is fixing him with a look of concern. He shakes himself.

"Sorry, Greg, what was that?"

"I asked if you two are okay. You and Sherlock. You've hardly said two words to each other all morning and you both seem really...tense." Lestrade lifts his shoulder in a half-shrug, as if to say, _Sorry to bring up your tiff or whatever but it's making us all uncomfortable. _

"Oh." John glances awkwardly down at the corpse on the grass, over at the consulting detective, to Sally on the phone nearby. "It's nothing," he lies, rather unconvincingly. "That fight we had...but it's fine. We're fine. It's nothing." He can tell that Greg doesn't believe a word of it, but to his credit the man just nods and lets it go as Sally walks back over.

"We've got an ID on the vic, name's Michael Weller – "

"Thirty years old, one prior for disorderly conduct?" Sherlock half-asks, already knowing the answer as he rejoins the group around the body.

"Bingo," Sally replies, the corner of her mouth tugging upwards. The past six years have changed Donovan a lot – though far more likely, John privately believes, it was a broken heart that turned her razor-sharp for the first twelve months after her not-boyfriend transferred out. But as she healed she seemed to soften, and over time it became clear that underneath all the spite and insults Sally was really a very lovely person, and she harboured a lot of respect for Sherlock Holmes and his ability. It's been a long, long, long time since the word 'freak' was just used. "I can follow up on the watch, Greg, if you wanna take – "

"No, Donovan, John and I need you back at the Yard!" Three sets of eyes fly to Sherlock in astonishment as he cuts in again, far more loudly than necessary.

"We...we do?" John asks, bewildered.

"Yes," the detective nods firmly. "In fact, we should all go back to the department. Outline all the evidence. Lay out all the facts." Sally and Greg exchange incredulous looks and John frowns, completely confused.

"But you already _have _– "

"Not on paper! It's important to write these things down as quickly as possible, in case I forget."  
"But you never – "

"To the Yard, John!"

x

xxxx

_**Forgive my mistakes.**_

An hour later, a sharp jab to the ribs makes the doctor's eyes snap open. He jerks upright in his seat, dimly registering that his right arm is numb from the elbow down and his neck aches. Greg sits in a chair beside him at the Detective Inspector's desk, looking bored out of his brain. "You were starting to drool on my paperwork," he mumbles apologetically.

"Shit," John murmurs, and he realises that he must have fallen asleep with his chin propped up in the palm of his hand for the second time since arriving at the Yard. "Sorry." Lestrade dismisses it with a wave of his hand and they both return their attention to the other occupants of the room. Sally sits on the opposite side of the desk, painstakingly copying down a handwritten report of the evidence at the crime scene as dictated by the consulting detective pacing holes in the carpet. Sherlock's hands are clasped behind his back, his coat and scarf thrown over a filing cabinet in the corner. He's frowning, expression clouded over as if frustrated about something, but what that could be John has no idea. It certainly doesn't seem like he's having any problems with recalling his deductions.

"So therefore, you see, the nanny is at the risk of failing her degree in computer science. She also has a particular fondness for tabby cats and long walks on the beach, but only in June – " There's a light clatter as Sally throws her pen down, covering her face with her hands and groaning into her fingers.

"What've tabby cats and long walks got to do with killing her boyfriend?" Lestrade sighs out in exasperation, leaning back in his chair. John rubs at his eyes and raises his eyebrows at his flatmate, less interested in the case now and more excited about going home. Sherlock stops pacing and opens his mouth as if to bark a reply, but before he can get a word out a loud beep sounds from the corner. Sherlock practically dives for his coat and digs around in his pockets until he finds his phone with an almost alarming haste. Sally sighs and lowers her hands, joining Greg and John in staring at the consulting detective. His fingers fly over the keys, continuing his strange correspondence. And then he returns his phone to the depths of his coat and turns to face his peers, bringing his hands together with a clap.

"Irrelevant!" he announces, although John isn't sure if this is to himself or in answer to Greg's question. The edges of Sherlock's mouth curve upwards in what seems like a very forced smile and he continues, "That's enough, Donovan. I have given you all the information I can, follow it to the letter and you will have the killer nanny in custody by this evening." He seizes his coat and pulls it on at lightning speed, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "Come, John, let's go." The doctor shares an incredulous look with Greg, Sally letting out a breath of relief. As he stands and adjusts his jacket he tells himself that he's leaving because he's tired and bored and he wants to, not because Sherlock ordered him to do so. After all these years, he's getting quite good at it. John, Lestrade and Donovan follow the detective out of Greg's office, ignoring the way he huffs impatiently when John pauses to organise the next pub night with Greg. Sherlock is in the middle of muttering about _are these plans really that necessary_ when the main door of the department bursts open. Every single person in the room looks up at the commotion as the doors bang against the wall and three people fall into the department. Two officers are trying (and failing) to wrestle a far less bulky but more energetic man to the floor, but even as a few more officers snap out of their reverie and rush to help the man shouts out,

"Get them the _fuck_ off me, Lestrade!" and John's mouth falls open.

"_Anderson_?" Greg gasps, and Sally freezes where she stands, the pages of Sherlock's report slipping from her fingers. Lestrade signals at the officers now looking his way. "Let him go, guys, it's fucking Anderson!" Instantly the man is released, shaking off hands that try and help him to his feet, brushing himself down. He doesn't waste any time in striding forward with more determination than John thinks he's ever seen one person emit, and it very quickly becomes clear who he's making a beeline for.

"Sally," he says breathlessly, coming to a dead stop in front of her. Sally's eyes are wide and she visibly trembles, but she manages to choke out a shaky whisper of,

"_Sean_."

It's as if some magical switch has been thrown; his entire demeanour changes the moment she says his name. His expression goes soft, the rigid tension leaving his shoulders, and the way he looks at her has John wanting to blush and slink away, embarrassed as though he's intruding on something highly intimate. _This_ is not an Anderson he's seen before. It's been six years since they last saw him, and although he's pretty much the same on the outside – greying at the temples and creased around the edges, but still slim, still pale and dark-haired – this isn't the man John met over a decade ago. Where are the insults, the snide comments, the trademark sneer? Anderson wets his lips nervously with his tongue. Then he speaks. "I left her. I left Janice." All eyes in the department are on him as he holds out his left hand, absent a wedding ring. Sally stares at the bare skin and back at his face, eyebrows high on her forehead. "I didn't love her and I shouldn't have left, I shouldn't have left you here, and I know it's been _so long_..." There is an unmistakeable plea in his voice, something John can't recall ever hearing there before; he glances at Sherlock but finds the detective rolling his eyes, fidgeting from foot to foot with his hands in his pockets. "But I missed you," Anderson continues, tripping over his words as he rushes to get them out. "I missed you too much to stay away any longer so I left Janice and I quit the Bolton job and I came back here because I thought m-maybe – " and now he starts to stammer, flushing pink, fumbling in the pocket of his jacket for something – "maybe we could t-try again forever this time – " and John inwardly curses and Greg's jaw drops as Anderson pulls out a velvet box – "because I made a huge bloody m-mistake but I love you and I'm s-sorry and I-I wanted to ask if S-Sally, you would m – " Only he doesn't get to ask, because Donovan has unfrozen and a sharp, stinging _smack_ rings out as the palm of her hand collides with his face, and for a few horrible moments everyone stands paralysed – Anderson with fingers imprinted into his skin, Sally watery-eyed and tight-lipped, Greg and John's eyes wide and mouths ajar, Sherlock huffing away as the only one in the packed room not hanging on every passing second. But then Sally brushes a tear from her cheek, swipes the box from Anderson's fingers and hurls herself at him to kiss him full on the mouth. His arms wrap around her and all of a sudden Donovan and Anderson are snogging the living daylights out of each other in the middle of the department to absolute stunned silence and goggling eyes...before someone over by the water cooler starts to clap, and the entire room breaks out into wild applause. John, blushing and averting his eyes as Sally and _Sean_ carry on kissing obliviously, can't help but grin and clap along. He meets Sherlock's gaze – the detective frowns and pouts, silently begging him to leave – and arches an eyebrow until even he manages to force out a flash of fake smile and brief touch of hands.

It's not until that night, when he's texting Molly to tell her and Stu about Sally's good news, that the pieces finally fall together for John. He corners Sherlock in the living room, sitting in his armchair and drinking his evening tea. "It was Anderson," the doctor says matter-of-factly, folding his arms across his chest where he stands in front of him. "He's who you've been texting." Sherlock nods into his teacup.

"Yes."

"You helped him propose to Sally." He can't be sure, but he swears he sees the corner of his flatmate's mouth turn up.

"Indeed," the detective answers. "He texted me a few days ago, desperate to contact her; you've all changed your numbers since. He explained his plan and I provided a few helpful details such as ring size and the fact that she was single. I helped ensure Sally would be present in the department so that Anderson could publicly 'declare his love' or some other drivel, and I dragged out the report because he got stuck in traffic. I rushed us to leave so that I wouldn't have to witness such dull proceedings but didn't anticipate that he would _run _from the car park." John frowns as he mulls that information over, feeling as though he's missing something. Sherlock Holmes? _Helping_? Helping _Anderson_? Lowering his arms now that he knows he won't have to try and order the full story out of Sherlock, John relaxes. He retrieves his own cup of tea from the kitchen, sinking tiredly into his armchair as the detective flicks through the pages of a case file on his knee.

"But why?" John asks, sipping. "You always hated Anderson." That thought makes several amusing memories resurface, and he has to bite his lip to keep from giggling.

_Anderson, don't talk out loud, you lower the IQ of the whole street. _There's a brief pause, a lapse into comfortable silence. For a moment John thinks that maybe Sherlock isn't going to answer. But then the detective closes the file, sets the papers and his tea down on the coffee table and leans forward, pressing his fingertips together and meeting John's gaze. "Because of what you said last week," he says. "That I'm heartless. That I'm selfish. Inconsiderate. You were right." The doctor goes still, teacup poised at his lips. He didn't think Sherlock even remembered that his blogger was mad at him, let alone the fight behind it. But Sherlock's eyes are boring into him, intense and inescapable. The man is a talented actor, but John knows the sincerity in his expression couldn't be more real. "I truly am sorry, John. I didn't stop to think about what sentimental value that jumper might hold for you. What I did was thoughtless and cruel, and I swear it will never happen again. Please forgive me." An apology. At long bloody last. Except now John is more interested in the way the detective is gazing at him, eyebrows drawn together in genuine concern, pinning him down under the weight of Something Else he has never seen in Sherlock's eyes before. John's mouth all of a sudden feels very dry and some unknown thing stirs in his chest. He doesn't look away as he takes another sip of tea. Then, smiling,

"You soppy git. You're forgiven."

x

xxxx

_**Wake me up.**_

The phone call comes in the early hours of the morning: 3:27am, to be precise. But for once Baker Street's resident detective is out cold, sound asleep in his bed – something he will later berate himself for until he feels physically sick – and so doesn't hear his ringtone blaring loudly from the living room. Sherlock doesn't often rest, but when he does he sleeps like the dead. In the end it's John who answers, nearly tripping in his haste to get downstairs, goosebumps prickling his exposed skin and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Lestrade, do you know what time it is?" he mumbles into the receiver, stifling a yawn. A pretty big case must have come up for Greg to be calling them about it at this hour. Except it's not a case. And it's not Lestrade. Deep, well-educated tones boom in his ear,

"I must speak to Mr Sherlock Holmes at once." John's eyes immediately narrow, his heart skipping a beat. That doesn't sound good.

"Who is this?" he asks, still fighting to wake up. His mind is racing with a thousand different possibilities at once, not one of them positive, because Sherlock simply doesn't get strange phone calls from mysterious men in the middle of the night. Not anymore. _Drug dealer? Killer? One of..._and now his stomach twists uncomfortably..._Moriarty's men?_ When Sherlock returned he said he'd taken care of _every_ member of Jim's network, but that was years ago now. What if he was wrong? What if they've been replaced by something far more sinister?

"I _must _speak with Mr Holmes, urgently," the voice insists, and John finds his patience is wearing thin. Shivering lightly in the early morning chill of the flat, he folds his arms over his chest and says firmly.

"This is Doctor John Watson, his...his...Whatever you need to tell him you can bloody well tell me first. How do I know you're not some shady type?" He inwardly cringes at the way he stumbles over the words, even though he can't help it. He doesn't really know what he is to Sherlock anymore. _His friend? His associate? Partner? Flatmate? _John expects the stranger to argue with him, but all the man does is sigh heavily down the line.

"Fine," he huffs. "There's been an accident."

Sherlock is woken by hard, insistent shaking. "Sherlock!" He groans into his pillow in frustration: he hates his rare episodes of sleep to be interrupted. "_Sherlock!_"

"Not now, John." The shaking only increases in fervour.

"_Sherlock Holmes get up __right now__ for fuck's sake!_" And then his shoulder is released, and he hears John step away from the bed and the sound of drawers being pulled harshly open. But it's the tone of his blogger's voice that makes the detective sit up abruptly, frowning, just in time to be smacked in the face with a bundle of clothes.

"John, what is it?" he asks. John slams the drawers shut and turns to face him, and Sherlock instantly begins a mental analysis of all the evidence. His bedhair is ruffled and untidy, he's been awake for mere minutes; cheeks flushed pink the way they always are when he's worked up over something; still in his pyjamas, barefoot, which means whatever the problem is it has something to do with Sherlock and not himself, otherwise he'd have dressed before waking him; he's short of breath, almost panting, a clear sign of panic – something urgent then; blue eyes wide and full of..._fear. _Someone has been hurt. Sherlock's fingers dig into the clothes in his lap. "What's happened?"

"It's Mycroft," John heaves out breathlessly. "We need to get to St Bart's. Get dressed, I'll call a taxi." He's barely made it to the door when an unbelievable murmur makes him whirl back round.

"What do you mean, '_why_'?!" He stares incredulously at the other man, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. "He's your _brother_, he needs you, that's why!" Sherlock's face is expressionless as he replies,

"Mycroft has never needed me before. I don't see why he should need me now. He's perfectly capable of functioning alone." John's mouth hangs open for a moment or so. Then his jaw tightens, his lips pressing into a hard line.

"Get dressed. _Now_." He turns on his heel and is gone, marching down the corridor to his own room. Sherlock sighs, eyeing the items in his hands – a long-sleeved button-up shirt and _urgh, jeans_, from his disguise drawer – with distaste.

Fifteen minutes later they're in a taxi and on their way to the hospital. "You're angry with me." It's the first thing they've said to one another since John's order to dress, breaking the thick silence in the back of the cab. Sherlock watches John from the corner of his eye, drumming his fingers against his leg; he's itching to rid himself of the godforsaken denim and plaid casual clothes in exchange for something more befitting his nature, but he'd known that to do so would only invoke John's temper even more. The doctor's hands are still, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his voice quiet.

"I'm worried, Sherlock. You should be too." Sherlock's lips part as if to speak, and quickly close again. He turns his head to look out the window, observing the familiar dark streets of London as they pass by, but his thoughts are elsewhere. There's no use in trying to explain to John – he wouldn't understand. He didn't grow up with the eldest Holmes brother, doesn't know him so completely the way Sherlock does. Mycroft is invincible. He's sly, manipulative and untouchable. Nothing has or ever will be able to defeat him except himself. Why should Sherlock go through the unpleasant ordeal of _worrying _about him when they should all know that he'll be fine? But suppressed anger is still rolling off John in waves, so the detective makes sure to keep his mouth shut all the way to the hospital.

x

xxxx

_**Cry with me.**_

Impact at no less than 90 miles per hour. Left side of the car. Fractures, abrasions, broken bones, deep coma; it's a mess. They're there for hours – but only because John refuses to leave. He wants to make sure that Mycroft survives emergency surgery no matter how many hours they have to wait, that someone with a gun will be watching over him. He wants to know the details, to hear the facts from the doctors themselves. All of Sherlock's deductions are right, of course: on the way to one of his usual shady, melodramatic meetings an unidentified heavy-duty truck ploughed into Mycroft's sleek black Jaguar. The rear of the car, the backseat, right where the man was sitting. By some miracle – and Sherlock scoffs at the word as it leaves the Chief Surgeon's mouth – he suffered no spinal injuries, but sustained a collection of broken bones and a very severe head trauma. John hates that he understands the frightening terms they use (_dysarthria_, _retrograde amnesia_, _hemiplegia_). But the long and short of it is that Mycroft may not be the same man when he wakes up. If he wakes up at all.

The one thing the doctors can't know, the one thing Sherlock already does and that John has whispered to him by Mycroft's shaken, Blackberry-less personal assistant, is _why_. And it turns out John's earlier concerns were not so far from the truth. A Moriarty sympathizer, a comparatively new addition to the network who was believed dead. Silas Moran, younger brother to Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand. They have pictures. Reports. They've been tracking him for a few weeks now, and Moran's message is crystal clear – _an eye for an eye, Sherlock Holmes. Brother for brother. _The consulting detective doesn't speak a word throughout all of this. His expression is unchanged, deadpan, unperturbed. John wishes he could say that it's shock, but in reality he knows that Sherlock is too unused to emotions to be able to hide them, to have any feelings to _be _numbed. When Sherlock looks unaffected, it means that he's unaffected. John feels his blood begin to boil.

It's late evening by the time they return to the flat. Having called earlier to explain their absence to Mrs Hudson, a weary, half-hearted smile fleets across John's face when he finds a cling-filmed lasagne and heating instructions on the top shelf of their fridge, in amongst the jars of eyes. "You should have some of this," he tells Sherlock as he waits for the microwave to ding. The detective, sitting at his desk and rifling through papers, mutters,

"I'm busy." John bites his tongue and sets a plate down in front of him anyway. Sherlock pushes it away instantly.

"Sherlock, you need to eat something."

"I'm busy."

"_Sherlock_." The detective doesn't look up, even though he can see John's hand curl into a fist in his peripheral vision.

"I don't need to eat," he insists. "I'm fine." A long second passes. Then John laughs, low and quiet and disbelieving, and as he walks back into the kitchen he bites out,

"_Of course you are_." A series of clinking begins as the blogger loudly starts to make a cup of tea, his hands shaking with emotion. He tries, honestly tries to hold it together, dropping a teabag into his favourite cup and refusing to let the unfeeling man he lives with get to him. But they're Sherlock-Holmes-and-Doctor-Watson, and the teaspoon clatters to the counter before he even puts the kettle on. "Do you even care?" he asks, voice tight, leaning heavily on the worksurface. When he receives no reply John turns around. Sherlock is standing now, his back to the blogger as he searches through a stack of case files over by the sofa. "What the bloody hell is _wrong _with you?" Still no response; the other man keeps searching, and this pushes John to breaking point. He snaps. "Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock!" he yells, crossing to the living room in just a few strides. "He's your brother, he might _die_ for God's sake! Would you still be so bloody _cold_ if it were _me _in that hospital bed – ?!" He jumps violently as, with a loud bang, Sherlock slams the files down on his desk.

"_How can you ask me that?!_" he shouts, whirling round. His face is even paler than usual, pink-tinged eyes flashing and full of what can only be described as _hurt_. "How can you even _think_ – " Sherlock's brain slams on the brakes, seemingly beyond speech as his demand is left hanging unfinished in the air. It's an instant, visible change the moment something in him breaks: the anger is wiped from his features, eyebrows lifting, hard lines fading away. His entire body droops and he slowly sinks down onto the sofa, chest heaving as if he's just finished running a marathon. Eerie, awkward silence descends on the flat. John becomes painfully aware of his heart, pounding away unpleasantly against his ribcage so hard it almost hurts. He stares at the consulting detective slumped on the edge of his seat, the dull despair filling grey orbs that are usually so bright, so sharp and alive. His best friend. All the rage he felt just moments ago has been extinguished by shock in the face of Sherlock's sudden outburst, but now the guilt starts to seep in – because clearly he was wrong. The great Sherlock Holmes does care. As his pulse begins to slow, John presses his lips together in shame at his words, and knows that he has to do something.

So he moves. Slowly, afraid that darting forward will make the detective jerk out of the trance-like state that has come over him, gather the shreds of his composure and close himself up again. The cushions beside him are gently sinking under John's weight by the time Sherlock makes any kind of movement of his own; his eyes flicker up from the floor, fixing instead on the wall. The presence of his blogger next to him seems to bring back his ability to speak, and he takes a shuddery breath. "I never had these..._feelings_...until I met you," he whispers. "And it was only with you, at first, but then after The Fall I – " Sherlock's voice catches, breath hitching. He clears his throat and tries again. "Something changed. All of a sudden feelings were _everywhere_. I can ignore it most of the time – I need to, to focus on my work. But not now. Mycroft's in a coma and all I can think about, all I can feel is guilt, and terror, and pain..." The detective leans forward, pressing the tips of his fingers over his lips as if trying to hold in his own words, and John aches watching a storm of emotions play out across the man's face, one last attempt to hold it together. He fails. "My brother might die and I can't make the fear go away this time, John, I _can't_." His voice breaks like fragile glass and the diamond-cut cupid's bow of his lip trembles. "How do ordinary people deal with these feelings? How do I make it go _away_?" Tears begin to spill down Sherlock's cheeks, thin frame starting to shake. Long fingers come up to tangle in his hair, concealing his tortured features from his blogger. He's broken. Sherlock Holmes is finally broken into pieces and the whole scene is so gut-wrenching, so _wrong_, that John doesn't know what to do. But he can't just sit here as his best friend _cries_, sobs for the first time since that horrible day on the roof of St Bart's. So John does what he would if Sherlock were like any ordinary person; he tentatively wraps an arm around the detective's shoulders, fighting against the lump building in his throat to force out,

"You can't, Sherlock." He doesn't expect the man to sag into him, moulding against his frame, hiding his face in John's shirt and soaking up the offered comfort in a way that makes the doctor's stomach twist – has anyone else ever touched Sherlock like this before? Ever held him close? Ever _cared_?

"Make it stop, John, please, make it stop!" Sherlock's fingers dig into his arms, sharp cheekbone pressing into his chest over his heart. The detective is all angles where John is all curves, all brain where John is all heart. "_Please_." The word is so small, and so agonizingly _frightened, _that he can't take it anymore. The doctor wraps his arms tightly around his partner, swallowing hard and blinking rapidly. After eleven years of their relationship, finally he sees straight to the core of the detective with a harsh clarity that The Fall clouded with grief. _This _man isn't a sociopath. This man is just scared.

John swipes blindly at the wetness on his cheek.

x

xxxx

_**Keep me safe.**_

He helps Sherlock into bed that night, brushing away the last of the man's tears with a Kleenex. He pulls the covers up and reassures him, with a comforting hand on his shoulder, that everything is going to be okay. And then he pads down the hallway to the bathroom, washing his face and changing into his pyjama pants and t-shirt, taking a couple of deep, steadying breaths in front of the mirror. _You've got to be strong for him_, John tells himself as he surveys his weary reflection. _Until Mycroft gets better_. He tries desperately to ignore the sinister little voice that whispers darkly, _If__ he gets better_. After turning off all the lights and checking that the door and windows are locked he heads for his bedroom – but hushed, hoarse tones calling his name make him pause outside Sherlock's doorway.

"J-John?" The detective's voice is thick and husky with emotion. John feels his heart clench in his own personal agony, and he knows instinctively what Sherlock needs. It's a testament to how far they've come that the thought of _not _doing it doesn't even cross his mind.

Slowly he pushes the door open, edging into the room; the detective is sitting up in bed, fresh tears trickling down his face, and he looks so _lost _and afraid, like a frightened little boy in a man's body. He seems to relax slightly when he sees John close the door behind him, all the way shut, his red eyes following the doctor as he crosses the room to the furthest side of the bed. "Move over," John tells him gently, and he shuffles obediently up to make space. He sniffles, too exhausted and too upset to care much for composure or dignity, and finally allows his eyes to slip closed as he lies back down. Flipping the switch on the bedside lamp, John lifts the covers and climbs under. Just his presence would probably be enough, but he isn't going to take any chances. He reaches out in the darkness beneath the sheets, his hands finding the thin, cold form of his partner easily; he almost swears he hears Sherlock's breath hitch when he touches him, and instinctively knows the man's never had this kind of physical contact before. Pressing closer, John wraps an arm around his consulting detective's waist and pulls him back into his chest, enveloping him in warmth. Sherlock's head moves to rest on his blogger's bicep, the dark curls soft and silky over John's heated skin, and he lets out a quiet sigh against the covers. John doesn't care what people say anymore. They can insinuate all they like, whisper that the doctor should re-examine his sexuality, and maybe he should - but right now all he knows is that he hurts when the detective hurts, always has, and that anything he can do to make Sherlock's pain go away is right. Moments later, slow breathing tells him his partner has fallen asleep. John swallows, his nose buried in Sherlock's hair, breath filtering out over the exposed area of his neck. The last thing he thinks of before sleep takes him is the surveillence report lying on the coffee table, and the man inside who has done something unforgivable.

They don't speak of it in the morning. Or the next morning, after it happens again. Or for a long, long time after Mycroft wakes up and they go back to their regular sleeping arrangements. Sherlock won't bring it up and John doesn't see any reason to: he knows why it happened. And they've never had much use for words.

x

xxxx

_**Watch over me**__._

Bright light blinds him and John starts, blinking rapidly like a deer caught in headlights as he jumps back. "_John?_"

_Oh, fuck_. Sherlock is standing in the doorway, his hand still on the light switch, mouth hanging ajar. John would laugh at the uncharacteristic shock on his face if they were in any other situation. He looks down at himself, shirtless and shaking in the middle of the bathroom. Then to the gun lying abandoned on the counter next to their toothbrushes. Then to the red-stained fabric soaking in the sink, blood splashed like paint over the porcelain. His eyes trace a trail of crimson along the floor that ends at the feet of the world's only consulting detective, and as he lifts his eyes to meet Sherlock's his voice deserts him. He has no words to explain himself. But even in the middle of the night Sherlock's mind is no less sharp. Moving into the room, he reaches for the crumpled ball of paper next to the gun. He holds John's gaze as he folds it out slowly, careful not to rip or tear it. Steely grey orbs flicker over the photo in his hands, and only one word leaves his lips:

"Moran." It's a statement. Not a question. John swallows.

"Yes." A beat.

"You snuck out to find him when I was sleeping." Sherlock looks up at the blogger, at the almost obscene amount of red covering the bathroom fixtures, the dark patches over John's chest and arms where it went through to the skin. "You killed him." Another statement. Not a question. This time the word takes a bit longer to form on the tip of John's tongue.

"Yes."

Complete and total silence falls between them. He's painfully aware of the tremble in his hands – it's been a long time since he..._dispatched_ someone – and the embarrassed flush to his cheeks. He'd dressed and crept out in the middle of the night for a reason. Sherlock was never meant to know, and now the man is staring at him as if seeing a stranger, _probably thinks I'm crazy or a psycho or – _

"Why?" A question. Not a statement. So unexpected that it's a few moments before John really believes he heard it. _Why did you kill Silas Moran, John?_ _Why did you find him, follow him to the disused factory he'd been hiding in and disable him? Why did you put your gun to his head?_ John's tongue darts out to lick his dry lips, nervous fingers curling and uncurling.

"He hurt Mycroft," is his hushed reply, barely more than a breath. "He hurt _you_." _He destroyed you, Sherlock. He tore you to pieces. He couldn't be allowed to live._ Sherlock continues to stare, his expression completely unreadable. It feels to the doctor as though an eternity passes in the following minute and a half, an eternity in which he comes to realise that, however it may make him look, he doesn't regret killing Moriarty's last man. Even though months have gone by since that night, even though Mycroft is recovering well, even though he and Sherlock no longer share a bed. He would kill Moran again, in a heartbeat, if Sherlock asked.

The detective turns, then, walking out of the room without a word, leaving John standing there confused and quite cold. _Too far_, he tells himself. _You took it too far this time, John_. He looks to his ruined shirt in the sink and bites down hard on his bottom lip, wondering if Mycroft's people have gotten rid of the body yet. That was the deal: John does the deed, they do the disposing. Inhaling sharply, he screws his eyes shut and clenches his fists. _God, Watson, stop shaking and pull yourself together! Don't be such a bloody baby. Clean yourself up and go to bed, and_...footsteps break him out of his internal pep talk, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Sherlock reappear. He carries several items in his arms, setting them down on the counter – bleach; the gun-cleaning kit; a fresh washcloth and a towel. Then Sherlock holds out the last items to his flatmate: clean pyjama pants and a t-shirt from John's bottom drawer, neatly folded on top of a familiar red dressing gown. "You need to shower. I'll clean up," is all the detective says, an unnameable emotion in his eyes.

x

xxxx

_**Sit with me.**_

"Tea?" John pauses by the sofa, looking down at the detective sprawled out across the cushions. Sherlock presses his fingertips together over his lips and considers the ceiling for a few moments, not unlike the night they solved their first crime together.

"Tea sounds..._dull_." His flatmate nods before continuing on his way to the kitchen, absent-mindedly brushing crumbs off the hideous jumper Mrs Hudson bought him for his 50th birthday. The kettle boils and a teaspoon clinks against china. He returns minutes later and sets a steaming cup and saucer down on the end table at Sherlock's feet. He doesn't say a word as he returns to his seat, sinking back down into his armchair and lifting his own drink to his mouth, watching his partner. Sherlock tries to hide the way his lips threaten to tug upwards, but John simply smiles at him over the rim of his teacup. Sometimes, dull is perfect.

x

xxxx

_**Show me how.**_

"I shouldn't, John, I'll drop her. I don't know how..."

"No you won't – look, I'll show you..." He's instructed to remove his coat, then his left arm is brought up and manoeuvred into a cradle, and a surprisingly light bundle is transferred into his arms. John is careful to be as gentle as possible in setting a tiny, fluffy head down in the crook of Sherlock's elbow. "There you go," he says softly. Certain that Sherlock will want to give the baby back in a matter of seconds he remains perched on the edge of his seat, waiting. The detective's brow furrows as he looks down at the sleeping newborn he holds, studying her with his usual analytical interest. Mocha skin just like her mother and thick tufts of dark hair, more than he'd thought a three-day-old child could have. "Have you picked out a name yet?" he hears John ask in a low murmur.

"We were thinking Chloe for the first name," comes a whispered reply.

"And Marie for the middle name," chimes in a deeper voice. They're all trying exceptionally hard not to wake the child, but for all their efforts she begins to stir. Sherlock tenses up, waiting for the customary screaming to start, and it briefly crosses his mind how ridiculous it is that he, Sherlock Holmes, should be afraid of something as small and ordinary as a baby. Then her teeny eyelashes flutter and bright, wide eyes, pale blue like her father's, gaze up at him. And just look. She doesn't cry, doesn't mewl or bawl. She just looks.

Her almost silvery orbs lock with Sherlock's and, with a jolt of Something, he suddenly feels as though she is searching the very depths of his being. As if this newborn child can see straight through him a way that no one else but John has ever been able to do. He doesn't even notice the way his face softens, or his breath hitches. He stares right back, because whilst he knows that babies this young don't understand words he's sure she's analyzing him in his own excruciating, critical manner. Deducing. It's not until miniscule fingers curl around the tip of his own finger that he breaks the silent exchange, eyes flickering down to where she has attempted to wrap her tiny little hand over the digit. Her grip is unexpectedly firm. In total contrast with the light, fluttery, butterfly-wing heartbeat he can feel gently humming away in her chest even through her babygro. _So fragile, and yet so strong_, he muses to himself. But what is this unfamiliar warm feeling blooming inside him, that makes him want to run the pad of his thumb over her tiny fingers and toes and coo at her in tones he doesn't recognise? In the chair beside him John watches Sherlock with the baby, memorises the way his frown fades the moment she opens her eyes and his lips part in surprise (awe?) as she grabs his finger. Something moves in John's chest, a tug and a warm ache that wasn't there before. What throws him is that he knows exactly what it is. Turning back to Sally and – he can't call him Sean, he'll always be just – Anderson, he smiles. "Chloe Marie sounds lovely."

John waits until they're in the taxi home before he brings it up. "I thought you didn't like kids?" he asks quietly of the detective, who has been staring forlornly out of the window since they left the hospital. Sherlock keeps his eyes on the world outside, not sure what to make of this new feeling coursing through him – an emptiness, a hollow spot in his chest cavity, as if he's only now missing something he never knew was gone. "I mean, you always said they were irritating and – "

"Dull, yes, I know." He tries not to sigh. He doesn't want John to know how much this trip to see the newest Anderson has affected him. Or how reluctant he was to give Chloe back. "I was, perhaps," he begins, choosing his words with caution, "...a little...premature...in my judgement." And what he means by that – although he'll never admit it – is he may have been completely wrong. Chloe Anderson is anything but dull, and as far from irritating as she could possibly be. John smiles at these words, suppressing a light-hearted giggle; like always, he knows exactly what Sherlock Holmes is feeling even if the man himself doesn't understand. This time, it's his first encounter with his deeply-buried, but obviously existent, paternal instincts. He probably won't make the connection between the feeling of loss and the fact that he doesn't have a family of his own, but John makes it quite regularly these days. If there's one thing he wishes could've come out of his failed marriage to Mary...but he closed that door six years ago, when he chose Sherlock. Still, watching him earlier...

"What about you?" The detective turns from the window, looking over at his companion. "You want children one day, do you not?" John is almost startled by the question, given his current line of thought. He quickly tries to mask his surprise, not fast enough he knows.

"I did," he answers honestly. "But, after Mary..." He glances down at his clasped hands in his lap, thinking. "I don't date anymore, and my fifties are nearly half over. I think it might be a bit late in the day for all that." He looks up just in time to see the expression on Sherlock's face change from curiosity to something that looks incredibly like disappointment, and the man returns his attention to the window once more. For one long moment John contemplates what could make his face fall so dramatically – then he's forcibly reminded of how much he hates seeing Sherlock crestfallen or upset. "Hey," he says, playfully nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. "We could always adopt. You can be a stay-at-home dad and I'll pick up an extra shift or two at the clinic. Mrs Hudson won't mind babysitting when we need to work away." He chuckles at his own suggestion, but receives no laughter in reply. Instead a subdued baritone voice rumbles out,

"I'd have to borrow Mrs Hudson's fridge and clear out ours. There's no way we would meet the standard health and safety requirements with a top shelf full of thumbs. Or with my experiments all over the kitchen table. Not to mention we could no longer work cases that involved week-long trips out of the city – our dear landlady has nerves of steel, but she's not as young as she used to be, no matter how much she tries to hide it from us. In fact we draw so much danger and attention to ourselves wherever we go that it probably wouldn't be the best of ideas to bring an infant into the equation." He does sigh, then, sharp but deep. "No, John. I'm afraid our current lifestyle isn't that best suited to raising a child together." And his partner stares at him, the grin slipping from his face and a tugging in his chest. Because even though John was only joking, Sherlock's words are deadly serious.

x

xxxx

_**Let me care.**_

There's a fine irony, in Sherlock's not-so-humble opinion, about a medical professional being ill. He's informed John of this several times this morning, much to the chagrin of the doctor, who gives a low groan from his position stretched out on the sofa. "I told you we shouldn't have gone out in the rain last Friday," he mumbles, and sneezes into his millionth Kleenex.

"It was just drizzling," his flatmate replies without looking up from his microscope.

"It was pouring down, Sherlock!"

"I needed to examine the imprints left by your exact style of boot in your exact size across several different types of terrain. For the Dawson case." John mutters something incoherent in reply, rubbing at his pounding forehead. He feels incredibly cold all of a sudden and he has goosebumps under his sleep shirt. A full minute passes before he continues,

"Shouldn't be doing that at my age." Sherlock's eye remains glued to the microscope as he changes slides.

"Fifty-four is hardly old, John."

"Well it is today. I feel like shit."

Another minute ticks by, and John reminds himself to re-learn how to say no to Sherlock. _He __will__ be the death of me at this rate_. He aches right down to his bones and lying in the same position for too long is making his shoulder throb painfully, but he doesn't have the energy to turn over, let alone get up and go to bed. _Sherlock bloody Holmes_. John closes his eyes and scrunches his tissue at the base of his sore throat, desperate for sleep. Maybe he'll feel better after some rest. He's dozing by the time he hears his partner get up and start moving around, and decides he doesn't care enough to ask what he's doing. _Probably looking for some more gruesome things to put on slides and stare at_. The sound of footsteps leaving the room and the kettle boiling soon become pleasantly distant. John's starting to think he might make up for last night's rubbish sleep when a hand on his good shoulder abruptly returns him to the land of the wide-awake. His eyes flutter open to find Sherlock just inches from his face, shaking him lightly.

"I made you tea," the detective says. "And brought you Ibuprofen. And biscuits, because the box says you're supposed to eat with them." John's gaze flits from his face to the end table, where a teacup and saucer, plate of digestives and two white tablets now sit. But he doesn't get to look for long; a thin arm slides under his back and leans him forwards to slip the Best Cushion – the comfy, velvet one from Sherlock's armchair – behind his bad shoulder. When he's laid back down, the ache of his old wound is eased considerably. He watches in astonishment as the thick woollen throw from Sherlock's bed is draped strategically over him, tucked in quickly by nimble fingers around his legs and feet to keep him warm. And then the other man simply walks away, sits back down at his desk, selects a new slide and puts his eye to the microscope as if he never even moved. John can only stare at him.

"Do pick your jaw up off the floor, John. It's not an attractive look," Sherlock tells him after several long moments have gone by. His words are softened by the up-turn of his lips and the rare affection in his voice. The doctor closes his mouth, averting his gaze. He smiles broadly up at the ceiling.

"So you _do _care about me, after all." It's a murmur, spoken quietly and without any real intention, almost to himself. But he sees Sherlock's head snap up in his peripheral vision and looks over, only to have his smile disappear at the expression on his partner's face. The familiar Frown of Frustration isn't there, and the Crease of Confusion is also missing from his brow. Instead a new line is present, one that curves his eyebrows down and widens his eyes and somehow counteracts the sharpness of his cheekbones, smoothing out his features. John's stomach does a funny kind of twist-somersault: the man hasn't looked so young since the day they met, fifteen years ago.

"I thought I made my feelings clear when I jumped off a building for you," Sherlock says. But his tone isn't accusatory or annoyed. It's not even particularly hurt, although there are some wounded notes hovering beneath the surface. It's just...soft. A gentle reminder of all that goes unspoken between them, all the words left unsaid. Things they feel don't need to be given voice, addressed or explained away. Things they have always just accepted. Sherlock's steely grey eyes search John's deep blue orbs for a long while, an intense gaze that both shakes John to the core and holds him steady, anchoring him to the Earth and keeping him close. It feels like hours before he finally finds it in him to lick his dry lips, and breathes out,

"Thank you." _For the tea. For the tablets. For coming back to me._

x

xxxx

_**Laugh with me.**_

Laughter like this hasn't filled the flat in years. John is biting his lip behind _Gulliver's Travels_, trying so hard to keep it together but failing miserably. The high but hearty giggles keep slipping out, in perfect harmony with the deep rumbles reverberating in the air and bouncing like thunder off the walls. It's all Sherlock's fault: he'd requested copies of all the team's theories regarding the new serial killer that's sprung up – granted, John was the one to jokingly suggest that Sherlock ask the rest of the department for their input on the difficult case, but how was he supposed to know the detective would actually _listen_? The man gave Lestrade's report several surprising nods of approval, which John makes a mental note to tell him about, and commented that Sally's skills of deduction have 'greatly improved'. The doctor should've realised that so many compliments from the world's only consulting detective couldn't last for long; Sherlock had made it to the bottom of the first page of Anderson's report before his shoulders started to shake, and then all of a sudden rich, loud laughter burst out of him and wouldn't stop. He's been hysterical for ten minutes. John, snorting and sniggering into his pages, decides he won't mention this particular part of Sherlock's reactions. It's taken over a decade but they, Anderson and Sally are on as good terms as they'll ever be. Best not to spoil it now. John finally dares to peek above the top of his novel and finds the detective nearly doubled over at his desk, the clearly quite entertaining report open in front of him. He doesn't ask what's in it. This serial killer has had Sherlock frustrated for weeks, pouting and grumbling all over the place – he badly needed this laughter fit, and he'll be far more relaxed and able to concentrate when he at long last calms down. Gasping for breath at the hilarity of his partner's hysteria, John drops his book and tries to smother an explosion of giggles with the palm of his hand, and thinks to himself that maybe, all these years later, Sherlock might finally be thankful for Anderson's input after all.

x

xxxx

_**Make me human.**_

"Does it bother you?" The words are a low murmur in his ear, so deep they seem to vibrate through his body and make him want to shiver.

"Does what bother me?" The detective is so close behind him that he can smell his aftershave.

"That you never did the things you wanted to. Settle down. Have a family." He swallows and looks out at the living room full of smiling, laughing people in paper hats, the wood of the kitchen table pressing into his hip. What was originally supposed to be a quick trip to refill his wine glass had inadvertently turned into a full three minutes of watching his closest friends as they talked and exchanged gifts and shared the awful cracker jokes about penguins and icicles. This is their first time hosting Christmas in over fifteen years, and the flat is well and truly packed: Molly, Stu and their two boys; Greg, a very pregnant Sarah in John's armchair and their daughter; Sally and Anderson (one day _Sean_ will stick, one day) and Chloe; Mycroft looking surprisingly at ease in Sherlock's chair with rosy cheeks (courtesy of said wine) and a plate of cake on his knee; and good old Mrs Hudson perched on the sofa next to Molly, tough as nails, nearly 85 but still going strong. She doesn't intend to leave her Baker Street boys just yet. The closest people to him, those he cares about, who, a decade and a half ago, he never could have dreamed would become the most important people in his life. Molly, in love with a man that isn't Sherlock Holmes? Anderson and Sally, naming the detective and doctor as the godparents of their child? Mycroft, entertaining the small gathering of children with the story of six-year-old pirate 'Captain' Sherlock's first solo adventure on the family's yacht? John sips his wine.

"I haven't exactly settled down," he admits in a whisper. "Or had kids. But I _have_ made a family. So no, I don't regret anything." A quiet hum, in his ear again, and John wonders if it's really necessary for Sherlock to stand so near to him to avoid being overheard. It gets his nerves all in a tangle. Eager to draw attention away from himself – and genuinely curious – he asks,

"What about you?"

Sherlock moves even closer, forwards a little. Out of the corner of his eye the blogger can see him swirling the last of his wine around his glass, as always looking far more effortlessly sophisticated than his partner. "What about me?" John can already tell the answer to this question will be a resounding _no_, but he decides to ask anyway.

"Don't you ever wish you'd gotten married? Had kids? Y'know, a family, like you said?" In all honesty this is a picture he has both an easy and hard time imagining – he's never known Sherlock to want more out of life than their work, but John would be lying if he said he couldn't envisage him somehow, in some way, pursuing other things. The detective's brow furrows, lips pursing slightly as he processes this. The doctor waits, drinking more wine and smiling as, with all the presents opened, Greg and Molly start to clear the sea of wrapping paper away.

"I always found concepts such as love, friendship and family to be...tedious." Sherlock finally answers under his breath. John tries not to roll his eyes. Of course the genius believes himself above all that. Except Sherlock goes on, "But then I met you," and John's eyebrows shoot up. "And now I think I understand. It's...important...to have friends and family. It's important to love people. Even if some of them are painfully dull at times."

"So sentiment _isn't_ a chemical defect found in the losing side?" The doctor attempts to hide his pleased grin behind his wine glass. Still leaning in, rumbling into his partner's ear, Sherlock answers,

"No. In fact, I believe it to be a rather pleasant emotional comfort found predominantly in the winning side." For the few silent seconds that follow, John is dumbstruck at having heard Sherlock Holmes, at long last, say the words he's been waiting all this time to hear. Then he murmurs incredulously,

"_Wow_." The detective tears his eyes away from the scene in front of them to gaze down at John, light frown still in place.

"What is it?" John lowers the glass, openly smiling up at him, undisguised affection in his tone as he says,

"I think you're finally human, Sherlock."

This seems to strike a chord in the younger man; the crease of his brow fades, his lips twitching up. An intense look comes into his eyes that the doctor has seen increasingly often over the past few years. "Only because you made me so." They stand there for God knows how long, watching one another with expressions that they have always worn in secret, behind the other's back, but never shared. Until now. No other person would be able to tell the difference in Sherlock's gaze, but John knows this is not a look of deduction. This is Something Else. It makes the collar of his shirt burn against his skin and his cheeks flush, warm eyes mere inches away from his partner's. After what feels like an eternity his lips part to speak, unknown words on the tip of his tongue – and an excited squeal of,

"_Uncle Sherlock!_ Play!" breaks the spell. The two men look to the living room where their host of hyperactive godchildren are eager to see 'Captain' Sherlock don an eyepatch and a felt pirate's hat. Mycroft beams smugly from the armchair, and John doesn't miss the way their smiling friends exchange looks. The detective forces a bigger smile onto his face before turning back to his partner. Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a fairly flat, rectangular, gift-wrapped package.

"For you," he says, handing the present to the wide-eyed doctor. "And yes, I know I never purchase gifts. I made an exception." John takes the present with surprise, noting its softness. Sherlock sets his wine down on the table next to John's hip. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm afraid I am required to abandon my dignity in favour of entertaining our nephews and nieces." And with that he's striding away, back into the living room with a not-quite-fake grin, and the doctor's eyes shift to the present in his hands. It's the first real one that the detective has ever given him. He carefully tugs at the paper, wondering what it could be. Two neat tears and the item inside slides out in a neatly-folded mass of yellow wool and multicoloured ducks. All his breath leaves him in a sharp exhale. John's throat constricts at Sherlock's gift, voice deserting him, gazing down at the garment he holds. He's gone and replaced the bloody jumper.

x

xxxx

_**Live with me.**_

They're grey now, but the game is still afoot. Sherlock refuses to slow down and they're still working as much as they used to, new cases on their doorstep almost every day. Each time she calls Harry always asks him when he's going to put his foot down and tell the detective that he's tired, that 58 is too old to be chasing criminals and waving guns around like they did when he was 40. "Soon," John reassures her, but it's one promise he never intends to keep. He wouldn't trade this life for all the tea and relaxation in the world. _Though right now_, he thinks as he huffs and puffs, doubled over with his hands on his thighs, _my armchair is sounding bloody good_. Their latest case has brought them to the Sussex Downs – another serial killer, Sherlock's always loved those – and for the past few hours they've been scouring the countryside for 'evidence'. What kind of evidence, he has no idea. But Sherlock seems to know what they're looking for, so here they are.

"Should've worn better shoes," the detective complains breathlessly from a few feet down the hill, eyeing his muddy, ruined shoes with dismay. John laughs as well as he can whilst gasping for air.

"Told you to wear boots," he reminds the man, and rolls his eyes at the incoherent grumble he receives in reply. Straightening up and turning, he looks down at Sherlock who's been noticeably trailing behind; his eyes are scanning the greenery around them but his hands are clutching his knees, a little bit tighter than necessary, and the corner of John's mouth curves up in a half-hearted smile of understanding. Although he does his best to hide it from everyone but the doctor, growing older has left Sherlock prone to bouts of rather painful arthritis in the knees and his left hip. The fact that it's hurting enough to slow him down today means he's not been taking the tablets John prescribed him. The blogger suppresses a sigh, and tells himself that he should know by now how forgetful Sherlock gets when he's excited about a case. And this hill _is _ridiculously steep. Without a second thought, John begins a careful descent down the slope to where his partner has paused. As soon as he's close enough he holds out his hand to the world's only consulting detective. "Take my hand."

He finds himself fixed with a look that seems torn between exasperation and gratitude, as if to say, _Don't patronise me, John_, and, _I thought you'd never offer_. He reaches out that little bit further. Then Sherlock's fingers curl tightly around his own, their grip strong and familiar, and he gently starts to haul the detective up the hill. With this combined effort they are at the top in moments. The duo are met by miles of unspoiled, open landscape, vibrant green grass lit up by the bright, hot midday sun, not a cloud in the sky. The sea glitters on the horizon. It's beautiful, and as he takes a few seconds to catch his breath John gazes out in awe. "We should move here," a smooth, baritone voice says from his left. He looks over to find Sherlock tugging at his suit sleeves, no longer panting. "When we retire." John can't help but chuckle in amusement.

"You? Retire?" He shakes his head in disbelief. "Never." The detective throws him a genuine smile, one of the things he's treasured most over the past two decades together, and after all this time that Something still stirs deep inside him. He grins right back. There was a reason why they could never put one accurate label on their relationship, never fully define what they were. John understands that now, eighteen years down the road, silver-haired and crinkled around the eyes. They are indefinable. They're just Sherlock-Holmes-and-Doctor-Watson. That's all they've ever been and all they'll ever be, and that's the only kind of label they need. "Besides," he goes on, looking back out at the countryside, "if we did retire, what would you do with yourself? You'd be bored senseless in less than an hour." Sherlock also returns his attention to the landscape, watching the grass sway lazily back and forth in a light breeze. After one serene, silent minute he answers,

"I'd like to keep bees." John snorts, still grinning, knowing he should be surprised but far from it.

"Bees?" he asks. "Why bees?" The detective appears to consider this a moment, and John briefly ponders why he's never heard about this desire before.

"Bees are interesting," Sherlock finally says, confident in his conclusion. "They're not dull, predictable or ordinary, like people are." The doctor quirks a joking eyebrow.

"Gee, thanks."

"You're not ordinary, John." The words take a second or so to sink in, but when he looks to his detective he finds the man already watching him, an easy, knowing smile on his face. And John continues to grin as they stand there side by side in the sunshine, bathed in gold and warmth under perfect blue skies, and it feels as if no time at all has passed since the day they met as he murmurs,

"Neither are you, Sherlock."

x

xxxx

_**My whole life.**_

It was never as simple as just keeping up. It was so much more than that. So much more than the way Sherlock reached for him and called out those three words that sealed his fate. John knows, now, what else was said that night. He'd offered his own fingers out to the world's only consulting detective and in doing so, inside him, in the part of him that didn't require breath and that knew where he belonged, he'd called back:

_Take my hand._

_And take my whole life, too._

x

~Fin~


End file.
